


paint the sky with silver lining

by rane_ab



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay (mild), D/s, M/M, Painplay (mild)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rane_ab/pseuds/rane_ab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kinkme_merlin fill, in reply to the prompt <i>Arthur/Merlin. D/s, rough sex, top!Merlin, bondage, magic!sex. Arthur gets off on being helpless, Merlin gets off on having the once and future king at his mercy. Merlin uses his magic to bind Arthur to his bed, and tease him until it's too much. Bonus points for dirty talk, cockslut!Arthur, and cuddling/general sweetness afterwards.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	paint the sky with silver lining

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: bondage, mild painplay, brief breathplay.
> 
> Note: future fic, past A/G, briefly touches on themes of betrayal in that context.

Arthur takes the servants’ stairs to the corridor below – they’re narrow and dark, the torches unlit, but he knows the shape of them beneath his boots by heart, from years of snatched moments alone, moving about and slipping out unnoticed, or sitting down with his cheek against the cool wall.

The weight on his chest seems to lift a bit with every step, and by the time he pulls the tapestry aside, he’s calm enough to be aware of the painful tension in his shoulders, the tight knot in his stomach. He breathes in deep before opening the door to Merlin’s chambers, but it only makes him more aware of the strain.

Warmth greets him as he enters, curls around his body, and brushes over his skin. The hearth is empty, and the door closes quietly behind him as soon as he’s inside, unmoveable to anyone but him. Merlin isn’t in, but the room dances with the magic he has more and more trouble keeping inside as he grows older, and that, when he sleeps, seeps out into the walls, the floor, and everything they’re holding.

Merlin’s room is a peculiar place. Arthur remembers a time when it made him uncomfortable, the knowledge that his helpless servant had the power to warp reality and wrench it into something of his own; the feeling had prickled uneasily at his skin, then, had made him feel vulnerable and exposed, and perhaps a little bit of a fool. But now he looks at the waves of the ceiling, the haphazard dips and impossibly high niches where herbs dangle, takes in the ridiculous sight of the owl-shaped clock, and the skin at the corners of his eyes relaxes.

He finds the block of wood on the lowest shelf of the far wall, where it always is, waiting for him, tucked in between a bottle containing a bright green liquid, and a pot with a note that says ‘Do not eat!!’ and would probably be more useful if anyone but a select few could decipher Merlin’s scribbles.

Arthur sits down at the table, facing the door – not allowing himself to look at the bed, not yet – and takes out his knife. There’s a tower of books on the corner of the table that totters as he works, but Arthur’s not afraid it’ll fall. Merlin hasn’t become any tidier since he stopped being a servant, and his magic allows him to stack things in increasingly unlikely ways. There are at least three shirts hanging off one of the torches, though when Arthur looks at them head on, all he sees is a painting. He’s pretty sure trees aren’t supposed to be that shade of purple.

He’s done by the time Merlin comes back, cheeks flushed from the cold outside, somehow bringing more heat into the room.

The dragon looks as close to Kilgarrah as he could make it, and very different from the one Balinor once made, but he’s suddenly worried, as he slides it over, that Merlin will take it the wrong way. But Merlin raises an eyebrow and says, ‘You’re never going to let it go, are you?’

‘I can’t help it if he prefers people who treat him with a little politeness,’ Arthur says, stretching his legs and crossing his arms in front of him. Merlin never has learned how to handle people in positions of power – or dragons.

‘I still say he talks utter gibberish,’ he says, grinning, and Arthur doesn’t reply with _I see you’ve never had to pay attention during a council meeting_ , because that hasn’t been true for a long time, and they’ve had this argument many times before, anyway.

Merlin’d wanted to learn how to carve wood by hand like his father did, many years ago, and Arthur had joined him, then, a silent apology for the wrongs his own father had wrought upon Balinor. Arthur was the only one who mastered the skill.

They both know why he is here, but Merlin starts emptying his bag, unrushed, removing various plants and herbs, tying them together or dipping fresh petals into jars of liquid. Arthur tries not to let it get to him. He manages to sit still – years of having perfect control over his body paying off.

He watches Merlin instead: the way his fingers tie the rope, or pluck the plants apart; the shape of his wrists where they peek out of his sleeves, and the fine hairs on the back of them; the smudge of dirt that blurs the runes on his cheek, and the slow dip of his eyelashes every time he blinks. They’re all familiar and comforting, Arthur knowing Merlin by heart, and he lets it calm him. The light from the window falls on Merlin’s face, just then, and casts the exhaustion there into relief. His skin looks pale in the cool spring sun, and Arthur wonders when the last time was he had a rest.

He feels guilty, then; he’s tired, so tired, and his mind buzzes with a hundred different concerns, but what right does he have to ask this of Merlin, when he has so much else to do?

He gets up, his chair scraping noisily over the floor, and announces, ‘Well, can’t stay and chat. Things to do.’

Merlin finishes hanging a string of herbs. ‘Sit down, Arthur. You’re not going anywhere.’ He sounds weary, and Arthur can’t tell whether it’s supposed to sound like an order or an observation. Either possibility makes him bristle. But Arthur knows he is a selfish man, sometimes, especially when it comes to Merlin, and he draws his chair back under him, guilt crawling into his stomach, squashed among the other feelings that make the muscles in Arthur’s back twinge.

He watches Merlin pull a face, and rub at his own shoulder, and the guilt finds a little more space. It takes another minute and Arthur becoming increasingly more tense before Merlin says, ‘Do I need to make you sit on your knees for a while?’ in the same tone he might ask if Arthur needs a drink.

‘No,’ says Arthur, appalled by the directness of the question.

‘Right,’ says Merlin and shoots him a distinctly unimpressed look.

‘Right,’ Arthur repeats firmly, in spite of the itch in his chest.

It isn’t usually this difficult. Or maybe it’s usually more difficult; he’s having trouble telling the difference, right now. He can’t sit still any longer, so he gets up and goes to stand by the bed. Maybe if they get this over with quickly, then they can both move on with what they need to do.

The covers are blue and the bedposts are shaped like tree-branches, and Arthur expects the pressure on his wrists but he still jumps when it happens. At first, it’s a gentle, if insistent tug towards the centre of the bed, but when Arthur jerks back violently, it becomes an overwhelming force. Sometimes, Arthur will let Merlin lead him quietly down and hold him there, but not today. Today, he needs to banish too many thoughts from his mind, so he fights. It’s nothing like fighting a man: there is no face or no stomach to punch, no weaknesses to exploit, no shape to get a hold of. All Arthur can do is push and pull and strike uselessly, but he does so with determination, with all he has, even when he gets relentlessly pushed onto his back.

He’s about to let go when he realises Merlin isn’t even looking at him, is still handling his loot, and it makes something burn in his chest, something helpless and painful, and he struggles harder, shouts for good measure.

Eventually, though, his arms run out of strength, and his legs ache, and he lies panting on the bed, defeated and pinned.

He watches Merlin wipe his hands, and finally – finally – turn around and wander over to lean against the gnarliest bedpost, saying ‘Done?’ and just looking at Arthur. He hasn’t even broken a sweat, and it makes Arthur feel useless; all of his power, both physical and social, all of his training mean nothing, here.

His skin is burning, and he has a moment to be grateful that he’s still wearing his clothes, at least, when he feels a tug at his boots; his tunic rolls up to expose his stomach to the cool air, and then it’s being pulled over his head, catching on his chin, then his nose, as though Arthur isn’t the king and doesn’t deserve more respectful treatment.

It takes Merlin about two seconds to rid him of his breeches. His cock springs up, the only part of him unbound, eager and prideful, and Arthur has to fight down a blush. Merlin smiles and looks his fill; and Arthur is deeply grateful that Merlin can’t hide the want he feels, no matter how hard he might be trying, how it softens his eyes, and makes him breathe through his mouth.

Arthur hadn’t been paying any particular kind of attention when they’d first come to this arrangement. It had been a way of stopping Arthur from spiralling into madness, or a way for him to climb up out of it, probably, after he fell apart – after. After Gwen. After Lancelot. It had been a way of trying to strangle the hurt and the betrayal, to obliterate the sins he surely must have committed to deserve this, to muzzle that tiny part of him that would always believe that he could never be good enough, for anyone.

He doesn’t even remember how it started. He thinks Merlin might have been angry (shaking). He thinks (knows) he might have said something hurtful, something unfair (because it wouldn’t have been the first time Merlin had lied to him, would it? Who else was going to leave him, who – ), that he might have tried to go further still, and it had nothing to do with _this_ , at first, and then suddenly it did.

He’d wanted Merlin to be brutal, then, had fought ten times as hard as he did, now, had lived for those moments when he could rage, when he was made helpless, and the emptiness that followed, free of pain or guilt or every thought of what he might have done differently, every way he might have wronged Gwen and drove her a bit further away. Every time he did nothing, even though he should have, that made him lose the woman he loved and the friend he’d come to take for granted.

It still hurts to think about it, a little, but it’s starting to grow into a dull, old ache, now, something that with time might just be familiar.

Back then, he would have still been struggling for all he was worth, even after he had lost. Back then, Merlin had just been – there, trying to hold Arthur together, to build him back up, a willing (desperate), convenient friend. Now, he lets Merlin spread his legs with a light touch of magic, and tries to mask the hitch in his breathing as Merlin climbs between them. He stretches out a finger, almost touches Arthur’s cock, almost but not quite strokes it, and Arthur swears he can feel the heat from his skin, his prick jumping as though it can buck into the touch.

Merlin huffs a laugh, his breath tickling the inside of a thigh, and Arthur can’t look away from his smiling face, from the intensity of his gaze, even when he says, ‘Look at you. High King of Albion – I wonder what your subjects would say if they knew you were such a slut.’ Arthur feels himself flush, and hopes Merlin will think he’s still panting from his earlier exertions.

‘Take you clothes off,’ he says, aiming for a distraction.

Merlin raises his eyebrows, considering. ‘Why?’

‘They’re in the way.’ Arthur smirks.

‘I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, sire,’ Merlin laughs, weighing Arthur into the mattress with his magic to emphasise his point, but there’s a slight blush to his cheeks; he still looks tired, but he also looks good, like he might be having fun. If he could move, Arthur thinks he might kiss Merlin, now.

If he could move, and things between them were different.

Merlin moves back; his lips brush the skin of Arthur’s calf, fleeting like it might have been an accident, like Arthur won’t realise and see.

Merlin humours him, says, ‘But I’m feeling generous today. Though, one day, I’m going to make you undress me, so I can order you around and complain about the clearly inadequate state of my clothes,’ and lets Arthur watch as he bares himself. He didn’t used to, but then, Arthur didn’t used to care.

Now, he looks Merlin blatantly up and down once he’s naked, making no effort to hide his desire, even as he shoots back, ‘Your clothes are always inadequate, Merlin, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with anyone but you,’ and there’s a small grin around Merlin’s mouth. Arthur wants to lick it off his face. Fuck, he’d settle for licking any part of Merlin, right now; his mouth tingles at the thought.

‘Maybe I should make you straighten them out, then,’ Merlin huffs, not really offended, the pendant swaying loosely on his neck, where it’s otherwise hidden under layers of clothing; Arthur gave it to him several months after he discovered Merlin’s secret, an apology and a promise of trust, and maybe a talisman to keep him safe, too, after Arthur had just gone and saved his neck (though if was Arthur’s fault in the first place, really), even though he’s not supposed to believe in that. But then, he did believe in Merlin, so he’d thought maybe it was all right.

It seems, sometimes, that he spends far too much time apologising to Merlin.

But Merlin is naked, now, and of course, he’s being a tease, because he makes no move to touch Arthur. A few moments later, Arthur thinks that he should have seen it coming. He’s quite fond of the bed, finds himself drawn to it every time he’s here, but Merlin tends to consider the rest of the room as an extension of it, or possibly of himself. Arthur has lost count of the number of times Merlin took him over the table, the bathtub, and one time, against the window, and yes, he’s quite familiar with this wall, too. He groans.

‘ _Merlin._ ’

‘Oh, he still remembers my name. Guess we’re not quite there, then,’ Merlin says mock-seriously, and his voice has gone tight, in control, and Arthur just knows that can’t mean anything good.

He feels a touch run quickly down his spine, barely there, and then his arse cheeks are being pulled apart, and without any further pause, something pushes at his hole, just hard enough not to breach it. And then, instead of going in, proceeds to rub along it, setting his nerve endings alight, teasing and good and not nearly enough.

‘Fuck,’ says Arthur. ‘Come on.’ He’s squirming again, trying to fight Merlin’s hold, trying to push back against it, but Merlin just hums and the touch weakens until it almost tickles, driving him even more mad. It firms again when Arthur stops struggling, like a reward, but refuses to do what Arthur wants it to.

‘Yeah, you really want it, don’t you?’ Merlin says, and he sounds a little hoarse already, even though all he’s done is watch; it drives the itch a bit deeper. ‘Do you want it, sire?’ It’s whispered right into his ear, and Arthur jumps, then goes still. He can feel Merlin’s presence behind him like there’s static between them, and he says, ‘Yes, yes, come on,’ hoping against hope that, for once, Merlin won’t play a game, and for a second he thinks he feels a touch on his shoulder, but then the presence behind him is gone.

‘Oh, God, I hate you,’ he says after what feels like too many minutes has passed, and still nothing has changed.

‘Now, now,’ says Merlin, sounding back in control, ‘You’re breaking my heart.’ There’s a sharp slap on his arse, and before he has the time to swallow a yelp, an invisible cock fucks into him. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but the sudden intrusion has him hissing through his teeth, especially when it starts moving roughly in and out and Arthur has to struggle for a few moments to relax into it.

And Arthur knows how this goes; they’ve played this game so many times; it’s just a part of the phase where Merlin shows Arthur just how powerless he is. But Arthur has to concede he’s making a strong point, and fuck if he can stop himself from moaning, wanting it harder and deeper and _now_ , the thrill of it running like hot water into his blood, imagining what he must look like to Merlin, and trying to move into it, even though he knows he’s on the road to disappointment.

Even though it’s not enough. He’s come like this many times in the past, bound and used by invisible forces, without Merlin laying a finger on him, but lately, it leaves him feeling unsatisfied when it happens. He’s fairly certain it has something to do with the way he’s left breathless, for a moment, sometimes when Merlin walks into a room and smiles at him, or does something completely ridiculous; with the way the sight of that damned necklace now makes him want to wrap his fingers around it and tug, and ask Merlin if he takes it off when he bathes, or if he keeps it on him at all times.

The wall beneath him is warm with Merlin’s magic; sometimes Arthur thinks it’s alive, half expects to feel Merlin’s heartbeat through it, and it’s pressed all along his front. He presses his lips to it like a secret, in case Merlin is too tired to do more than this, in case this is it, after all. He thinks it might be, heart soaring and sinking at the same time, when he feels his nipples being pinched, and he’s almost being crushed against the wall, now, as the prick slams into him, hard, his own cock weeping against the skin of Merlin’s chambers.

His mouth is open in a gasp, and just then, the already thin air grows even scarcer. He knows he should focus solely on inhaling, the rapid beating of his heart using up his breaths too quickly, but he’s slammed against the wall, the force inside him seeming to expand even as the inside of his throat narrows, and he uses the little space he has left to moan, instead, going dizzy and tense all over. His body jerks and he thinks he’s about to come, impossibly, when the force holding him up falls away, supporting him just enough not to hurt more than his knees on the way down.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, or possibly pant pathetically, before looking up, ready with an outraged protest, but Merlin is leaning back against the table, legs shamelessly spread, fisting his own cock with lazy strokes, and the words slip back down his throat, taking some of the precious air he’s recovered with them.

His body still feels over-sensitised, too hot, too close to coming, and Merlin is right there, and he’s warm and real and not some impersonal force holding him up; and, oh, God, Merlin’s flushed all over, from his face to his chest, right down to the soft skin of his belly and the tops of his thighs. His eyelids are drooping, his gaze fixed on Arthur, like his entire world has narrowed to that, and his cock looks sticky and wet when it pokes out of the firm grip of his hand. Arthur’s mouth waters helplessly.

He can’t decide whether he wants to watch Merlin come undone like that, or whether he’s afraid Merlin will before he gets a chance to touch.

And then Merlin blinks, once, twice, a slow smile spreading over his face; Arthur’s expression must have been too revealing, because Merlin says, voice deep and rough, ‘Do you want it?’ tipping his cock slightly more forward, as though offering it to Arthur, but without stopping the motion of his hand.

The lingering resentment at being dropped like a bag of grain flickers over his mind for a moment, but it’s not like there’s any doubt that, ‘Yes,’ yes, he does want it. Behind Merlin, one of the herb ropes is swaying gently, even though there’s no draught from the window.

He’s about to move closer, determined, when Merlin licks his lips and says, ‘Beg me for it.’

Arthur stills; heat floods his chest, an odd combination of shame and lust and something else still, while he looks at Merlin, so confident in that moment that Arthur wants him, his skin warm with the knowledge of it. And Arthur wants to.

But princes don’t beg; kings even less so. Merlin has made him say _please_ before, often does, but usually he’s so close by then that he can barely think, and this request is rarer; more recent, too. But it’s not the first time, so he swallows three times, weighs the heaviness of his prick, and lifts his head high; says in a clear voice, ‘I’d like to suck your cock, please.’

‘Would you?’ Merlin asks, and he sounds wrecked, now, and he tugs a little harder, and _oh_.

‘Yes,’ says Arthur quickly, hoping to move things along.

‘Then ask me for it. C’mon, Arthur, I know you can do it.’

Arthur frowns, annoyed, opens his mouth, and falters.

His whole life has been an exercise in not asking for anything. Even when he was speaking to his father, he’d say, _I’d like to go on a hunt_ or _Let us ride out to the border, and I assure you we’ll find them_ – questionable, yes, open to refusal, but carefully not framed like a question, because a prince can’t afford to sound less than certain.

‘I – ,’ he fumbles, ‘Please, I – ,’ frustrated, like his mind doesn’t even know how to formulate it. Arthur hates not being able to execute any task perfectly.

Merlin stares, waiting, before leaning forward slowly, offering, ‘Can I suck your cock, please, Merlin?’ and in his embarrassment, Arthur tries to find comfort in the fact that at least Merlin’s hand has almost stilled; it has nothing at all to do with Arthur letting him down.

‘Can I suck your cock, please, Merlin?’ he has to say it slowly, shape the words carefully, trying it out, focusing on the way the setting sun softens the room, reflects off dust to frame everything with a golden glow.

‘Good,’ says Merlin, and Arthur feels ridiculously relieved. ‘Now look at me and ask me again.’

‘I said it,’ he exclaims, feeling outraged and wrong-footed.

‘I’m not just going to give it to you, Arthur. _Ask me for it._ Like you mean it.’ Arthur grits his teeth. He’s disappointed that Merlin’s sounding more like himself again, his breathing evening out, and his pride considers letting it go; Merlin surely will let him come one way or another, regardless.

But now Merlin is frowning, and that won’t do at all, makes Arthur’s chest feel hollow – not in the shattering way it did when he felt like he’d let his father down, when he was younger, but filling with a slower, different hurt; with the awareness that he can say no, now, that it’s his choice to do so, but he really doesn’t want to.

He holds Merlin’s gaze, stubborn, and repeats the question, and again, when Merlin asks him to, feeling his face heat. He loses count of the number of times the words cross his lips, the shape of them more and more familiar, the golden dust caressing Merlin’s body, until Merlin leans back and starts stroking himself again, the shifting muscles making the rows of runes on his forearms dance, and Arthur snaps.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, can I _please_ suck you?’

He’s a little surprised when that gets him a grin, but Merlin looks pleased, and says, ‘Come on, then.’

Arthur is half-way across the floor before he realises he’s crawling even though Merlin hasn’t asked him to, but then, he can’t bring himself to care. Up close, Merlin smells a little like the woods he’s been wandering around in, threading through the scent of his want, and Arthur leans in, eager. He loves this part; even when he was new to it and Merlin had to teach him how, he had. Even when it made his face burn, he’d loved it; loved the way it made his lips tingle; learned to love the taste of it and the smell of it in his nostrils; loved the intimacy of sucking, that he could lose himself in it and the way it could steal his breath away.

But Merlin knows him too well – sometimes, Arthur is afraid Merlin sees him all – and he finds himself unable to move, inches from the heat of skin, tongue brushing thin air. It seems he can move back just fine, but there’s an invisible wall stopping him from moving forward. It’s possible he growls.

Merlin looks entirely too pleased with himself, but before Arthur can get started on the tirade he feels bubbling up inside of him, and which probably won’t get him anywhere at all, he says, ‘Give me your tongue.’

Arthur scowls, but sticks it out, feeling ridiculous, hoping Merlin will tire of whatever way he’s trying to mess Arthur about quickly. ‘Closer,’ Merlin adds, actually motioning with his hand, until Arthur has his tongue pressed against the invisible barrier, and then Merlin pushes the head of his cock against it, moving it about a little, wiping the little droplets at the tip of it on Arthur’s tongue, until he’s flooded with the taste of it. Arthur tries to press closer, groaning, but the wall won’t give.

Above him, Merlin’s face has gone slack, and he’s staring, now, panting, small noises escaping his throat as he rubs himself faster on the small expanse of flesh, murmuring, and fuck, fuck, Arthur forgets all about being annoyed, just wants more, wants to make Merlin feel better, still, especially when Merlin’s fingers thread into his hair, and he starts murmuring,

‘Yes, that’s it – oh – you’re such a good boy, aren’t you? _Ah_ , keep your tongue there for me, Arthur, yes, that feels nice, so good, you’re so good…’

And if it’s a bit of a stretch to call him a boy, Arthur kindly doesn’t mention it, lets the words wash over him and melt the tension in his shoulders, lets them turn the knot in his stomach into a different kind of heat, soaks up the praise that has nothing to do with him being the king, offered honestly and unselfishly.

Merlin’s thumb pushes his tongue back into his mouth, and the barrier disappears, but Arthur’s jaw is locked together, which is really very galling when Merlin draws his face against his crotch. He inhales deeply, instead, while Merlin presses his cock against his cheeks, careful, his hips moving a little while he pets Arthur’s hair.

Sex, for Arthur, had always been about control, before. But Merlin has always been chaotic and odd, and it’s only fitting that he is like that here, too. For instance, he loves to rub himself all over Arthur’s body. Arthur won’t soon forget that time a few weeks ago when he came back from a fight, and Merlin spent an hour kneading just about every muscle he knew he possessed, spreading oil everywhere, until Arthur felt boneless, and then, to Arthur’s great consternation, proceeded to stroke his prick against every bit of exposed skin for another hour, at least, right down to Arthur’s ankles, and his arms and his forehead, alternately curious and gentle, and pushing down to rub more eagerly and drive himself mad against the larger surfaces.

At the end of it, Merlin had looked drunk – drunk on Arthur; and he hadn’t used magic, then, to hold him down, but Arthur wouldn’t have been able to move even if he wanted to, Merlin’s smell everywhere on him, and Merlin had pushed his cock into Arthur’s slack mouth, his fingers shaking, to mark the inside of it, too, as he came in thick ropes down Arthur’s throat, face twisted in what looked like unbearable pleasure.

He tips Arthur’s head back, now, presses himself against Arthur’s throat, looks down at him with eyes that have gone dark and feverish, and groans. ‘Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Arthur. You’re always beautiful, but you’re beautiful _now_ , like this, when you want it so bad, and you don’t care if I see.’

Merlin’s prick throbs hotly against Arthur’s neck, or maybe it’s his own reflected heartbeat, he doesn’t know; he loves the feel of Merlin’s magic, but he loves this more, the feeling of life and Merlin’s skin against his own. Time stretches, fingers still moving slowly in his hair, while they stare at one another, and all Arthur wants is _more_ , but Merlin seems lost in the moment, stuck in it, and Arthur forces himself to breathe and say, as drily as he can manage through his teeth,

‘You know, I could still have you thrown in the stocks.’

It’s so ridiculous, Merlin laughs, as he had hoped, the tension breaking.

‘You and what army?’ Merlin asks, mocking, dragging his fingers down a cheek, and the air around him heats, tightens, somehow, alive with a magic that crackles along the hairs of Arthur’s arms, and would be threatening if Arthur didn’t feel as if he could drown in it; as if he’d like to.

Not the least bit intimidated, Arthur nuzzles Merlin’s cock, runs him lips along it, pauses to savour the feeling, somehow reassuring and exciting at the same time, and then presses a kiss to the head, slow and intentionally seductive, and says, ‘Please.’

He’d feel quite a bit more smug about the stupid expression on Merlin’s face, if his own mouth didn’t feel parched with want. Merlin takes the time to run shaking fingers over his lips and moan, ‘God, Arthur, your mouth,’ before he feels his jaw unlock, and then he opens his mouth, impatient, and Merlin feeds himself into it.

One of Merlin’s hands goes to rest on the back of Arthur’s head, making him feel the weight of it every time he draws off, and Merlin, bless him, never could shut up for five minutes, and he’s no different in this, moans and encouragements falling from his mouth unheeded as he watches Arthur suck him back in eagerly. It doesn’t take long before Merlin’s fingers become more demanding, pulling Arthur off his cock and pushing his mouth against his balls, murmuring,

‘Lick them, go on, Arthur, you know you love this, oh, that’s so good, _yes_ ,’ in shallow, fast breaths that make Arthur’s stomach tighten.

Merlin draws him to the soft inside of his thighs, after, drags Arthur’s cheek along them before letting him turn his head and bite softly, do his damnedest to suck bruises into the skin, Merlin babbling, ‘Yes, please, please, ah,’ before pulling his head back up to where Merlin’s free hand is running along his own flesh, and Arthur jealously puts his mouth back there, licking along fingers and heat and listening to Merlin tell him how well he’s doing.

He gets lost in it, in the pull of Merlin’s fingers and the taste of skin, in the desire humming through his veins and making him pliant, encouraged by the sounds falling from Merlin’s mouth, and he doesn’t want it to stop, wants to stay here for hours. His jaw starts to ache, after a while, but it’s like an insignificant buzz in the back of his mind, nothing compared to the pains he has been trained to endure in battle, and this is its own kind of training, with Merlin as his taskmaster, and Arthur is desperate to excel.

Merlin is holding his head still now, driving himself in and out of his mouth, using it for his own pleasure, and Arthur happily takes it, feels the thudding of Merlin’s lust against his tongue, deepening, going rabbit-fast, until Merlin draws back and Arthur has a moment to close his eyes before there’s a deep, shattering groan and Merlin comes all over his face.

To the left, something falls off a shelf, inconsequential.

Merlin’s breaths come in rapid gasps, after, his face a hectic pattern of reds, and his chest jumps with the beating of his heart as he drags his fingers through his own release, wiping it into Arthur’s skin, pushing his fingers into Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur’s body feels lazy and comfortable, throbbing with lust, but no longer in an urgent way, and he just wants to enjoy Merlin’s hands on him, petting and kind.

But Merlin’s eyes are sharpening again, and his mouth curves, and just like that, Arthur’s want crystallises.

‘All right?’ Merlin says, stroking fingers down a shoulder, and gooseflesh follows in their wake.

Arthur pretends it doesn’t take him far too long before he can answer, ‘I’m fine, Merlin. What did you think, that I’d break under the power of your mighty cock?’

‘Mmm, well, I’ll have you know it’s been known to do extraordinary things.’

Merlin’s hands are doing something really unfair to his neck, when he says, ‘What, like drooling all over me? It’s true that takes quite some extraordinary skill in clumsiness.’

‘I wouldn’t if you didn’t love it so much,’ Merlin smirks – Arthur’s not sure he manages not to flush, but then Merlin drags a finger up the underside of his prick, and Arthur jumps, an embarrassingly loud gasp falling from his lips, right as he’s trying to say, ‘In your dreams.’

‘Are you sure you want to give me more cheek, sire? After all, I could put you in the stocks,’ Merlin says, and the faint outline of them appears in the corner of Arthur’s eyesight, ‘Just like this,’ he adds, tapping the head of Arthur’s cock. ‘I could leave you there for hours. You’re free to hope no servant comes along in the meantime.’

‘Don’t you _dare_ ,’ Arthur snaps, but his prick throbs, and fuck Merlin for knowing him so well, because he can feel the ghost outline of wood around his wrists, hard and unyielding, just as Merlin continues, ‘I’d make you spread your legs and use you whenever I felt like it.’

Merlin kneels in front of him, and whispers against his face, ‘Would you like that, Arthur?’

Arthur has to close his eyes, the image clear in his head, making his head spin, but – ‘No.’ Not like that, not the stocks, he doesn’t think – . And just like that, his hands are hanging loose again, and he fights a rush of disappointment, feeling conflicted.

‘It’s OK, Arthur. It’s OK,’ Merlin murmurs. The expression on his face is kind, familiar, that of his old friend, and an odd feeling spreads in his chest, making him feel weak; and then there are arms around him, holding him in a loose hug, the gesture comforting except for where his prick is softly pressed against Merlin’s stomach. He ignores whatever embarrassing sound falls from his mouth, even when Merlin laughs, and looks down. ‘Let’s take care of that, hm?’

And, oh, if only it were that simple. Maybe, this time, maybe, Merlin will let him. He pulls a bottle of oil out of thin air and tips it over to drip slickly over Arthur’s cock, down his balls and onto the floor, where the little puddles narrow until they disappear.

Merlin leans the top of his head against Arthur’s shoulder, his hair soft and tickling, and he closes his hand around Arthur, grip firm, and for a few moments, it’s bliss, Arthur already too far gone and his balls drawing up quickly, and then something invisible closes around the base of his cock, and he barely has enough wherewithal left to say, ‘I hate you.’

Merlin hums innocently, but ruins it by laughing, his breath teasing over a nipple, and Arthur wouldn’t put it past him to have calculated that, too, especially when his mouth closes around it a few seconds later.

And the thing is, it’s perfect, Merlin’s fingers a little rough, sometimes wandering off to stroke and tug on his balls, his tongue lazy and teasing; Arthur’s body keeps tensing up and trying to come until it hurts, and – ‘I really, really hate you,’ and Arthur really wishes that had sounded steadier.

‘Want to tell me about what’s been bothering you?’ Merlin says between licks.

It’s possible several minutes pass before Arthur answers, ‘What, you want me to remind you of the ships that keep landing on our – oh, _fuck_ – western border, and the crops that got ruined by the rain up north, and Morgana and Mordred – ohhh – _now_?’

Merlin shrugs, the gesture pushing his nose into Arthur’s chest; says, too casual, ‘Just thought you might want to chat. And I’ve told you, I can fix those crops.’

He could, but it would make him even more tired. ‘You can’t fix everything, Merlin.’

‘No, but I can do that, at least. And we can hold off those ships, Arthur. We’ve been holding off Morgana’s army for far longer than this.’

‘Merlin…’

‘We can make it work, I promise. It’ll be all right. I promise,’ he murmurs into Arthur’s skin, and Arthur closes his eyes and lets himself believe, for a moment, touches the small of Merlin’s back in gratitude, and Merlin doesn’t stop him, continues stroking Arthur, and the desire that had started to ebb with their conversation seeps back, intensifying; only now when Merlin touches his shoulders, the tension is gone.

‘Are you going to let me come sometime today?’ he says.

‘Today, surely, sire. But I think I want to have you one more time before I do,’ he smirks, stroking his hand up the hairs on Arthur’s thigh.

‘You’re not seriously going to keep doing this until you can get yours into functioning order again?’ Arthur says, a little horrified.

‘Why not? Afraid you can’t take it?’

‘Merlin, it’s going to be very difficult riding a horse if you rub it raw,’ he says. It’s a reasonable argument.

‘Oh, what’s a little pain to someone like you, sire? Strong, unflinching, you can take anything, can’t you?’ And Merlin’s really laughing now, his eyes dancing and taunting and his face entirely too close to Arthur’s.

‘I thought you were tired,’ he says, desperate, then immediately regrets it when Merlin’s expression goes blank.

‘Who says I’m tired? I’m fine,’ he says, and he’s leaning away from Arthur, now, taking warmth with him.

‘I’m not blind.’ His own tiredness sets in again, and when he wants to reach out, he finds his hands immobilised. But then Merlin’s composure softens, and he sighs. ‘We’re all tired, Arthur. I find this pretty relaxing, personally – I thought you did, too.’

‘You – ,’ Arthur says, feeling something like relief, and then catches himself. ‘Yes, of course I find this – offers certain distractions.’

‘Wow. “Offers certain distractions?” You flatter me,’ Merlin says, and Arthur snaps, ‘You know what I mean, Merlin.’

‘I suppose I do,’ Merlin murmurs, but he looks a little tired again, wistful, and Arthur wishes he could change his words, still. He’s searching his mind for something appropriate, anything that would make Merlin understand, would take that look off his face, but he blinks and he’s lying face down on the bed.

‘What – ?’

‘You know, you’re right, we can’t have a king who can’t ride a horse, so if you’ll excuse me for a bit,’ Merlin says, and Arthur feels heat brush on the inside of his thigh, then higher up, and then fingers are touching him everywhere, teasing and light, while Merlin grabs a pot off the shelf and goes to mix some concoction or other, somehow wearing robes, and Arthur says, heartfelt, ‘I’m going to kill you.’

His murderous intent softens, but only a little, when Merlin grins at him brightly. ‘No chafing, I promise.’

He thinks it might go on for hours, invisible tongues and fingers on his back, his thighs, at his hole, pinching his nipples in a way that will most certainly leave them sensitive tomorrow, Arthur gasping into the sheets, breathing in Merlin’s sleepy scent; and maybe that’s why he likes the bed so much. Merlin’s magic is everywhere, but his smell clings here, surrounding Arthur, and he opens his mouth trying to inhale more of it as his arousal crests and ebbs.

He knows it can’t be that long, however, because the sun still shines weakly when Merlin finally approaches the bed. Arthur is reduced to swallowing whimpers, now, under the onslaught of too much sensation, and blinks, disoriented, when Merlin turns him around.

‘Wow, hey, you,’ he says, and Arthur doesn’t know what sight he must present for Merlin’s voice to go so soft and deep, but he’s glad the tense lines have been wiped off Merlin’s face. ‘Liked that, did you? Of course you did.’ He’s smiling, and yes, Arthur’s liked this a lot in the past, but now he’s glad Merlin in actually here, mindlessly pushes into the touch on the side of his head.

‘Come on, Merlin,’ he says, and if his voice comes out raw and broken, he doesn’t pay it any mind.

‘Yeah, all right, all right,’ he says in a soothing tone, not looking away from Arthur, ‘You should see yourself right now.’

He doesn’t undress immediately, this time; just pushes up his robes and straddles Arthur’s chest, the bed dipping with his weight, exposing his half-hard cock. ‘Here we go,’ he murmurs, and lets it rest against Arthur’s mouth until he pulls together enough presence of mind to lick at it.

He sucks it in, with Merlin’s help, and in the dying light, Merlin looks soft and peaceful, his skin flushing anew, and Arthur struggles to catch glimpses of him, while Merlin gently moves in and out of his mouth, holding his head steady, telling him to, ‘Mmm, lick at the head for me,’ and ‘Yeah, come on, I know you can take a bit more,’ and Arthur does whatever he is told, too boneless to even want to argue.

Eventually, Merlin pulls out, his cock wet with Arthur’s spit, and crawls down his body, settling between his thighs, pulling off his clothes by hand. ‘I’m going to fuck you now, Arthur. Just the way you like, yeah?’

And Arthur somehow finds it in him to say, ‘Will you please fuck me, Merlin?’

Merlin groans and says, ‘Fuck, you tease. Always need the last word, don’t you?’ Arthur smirks lazily, watching Merlin handle his own cock, stroking oil onto it, before his wet fingers push into Arthur’s entrance, making him shiver with it.

‘Do you want it?’ Merlin asks, as he always does, because it’s somehow his favourite question in the world, and Arthur says, ‘Yeah, fuck me, Merlin. I want you to,’ easy, because those words always make the skin at Merlin’s throat darken, and Arthur wants to suck there except it’s too much of an effort to lift his head.

And then Merlin is aligning his cock, and if there were any thoughts left in Arthur’s mind, it seems Merlin pushes them right out. He hears someone moan, deep and drawn out, and he thinks it might have been him, but it might have been Merlin, too.

He loves to listen for the hitches in Merlin’s breath, soon turning into helpless _ah ah ah_ sounds that soak into Arthur’s blood and make it run more thickly.

Merlin’s hands come to circle Arthur’s wrists, and he’s leaning close, looking wild, murmuring, ‘You love this, don’t you, you love this,’ like a mantra, and eventually Arthur manages to form the word, ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ and maybe it’s exhaustion, or maybe Arthur has finally pushed Merlin too far, but magic abruptly crackles around him, while Merlin desperately tries to rein it back in, dangerous and dense and nothing like the lighter magic that had surrounded him earlier. It tastes like Merlin, somehow, only darker, earthier, and thicker than it has ever been before, and Arthur arches into it, moans, and Merlin stares and forgets to force it back inside.

‘Fuck, you love this, _oh_ , you – so beautiful, Arthur, how are you so – everything – I can’t, _please_ ,’ and Arthur doesn’t know what to say except for, ‘Fuck me, yes,’ his body alive and trying to match every stroke, the magic going crazy around him, biting and caressing and owning, and Arthur wants more, wants it all.

Merlin has Arthur practically folded in two, magic taking the place of the hands that are still holding Arthur down, and Merlin’s head falls forward, and he gasps, ‘You’re such a whore, aren’t you? Look at you,’ trying to get back to their usual game, trying to win back some control, but Arthur only wants to see Merlin’s face go wrecked, so he says, ‘Yes, yes,’ and Merlin’s fingers tighten around his wrists, painful for a moment, though Arthur can barely feel it over the other sensations. Merlin sounds broken when he stammers, ‘My whore, _my_ beautiful – ,’ and Arthur manages to lace his fingers with Merlin’s, holding on, repeating _yes_ over and over again.

‘Mine,’ Merlin says, half-conviction, half-question, and Arthur wants to kiss him so badly, but he’s held down by the magic, and he says, ‘ _Please_.’

He feels like he’s falling, drowning, burning up all at once, and he grips Merlin’s hands hard, and Merlin fucks him, and fucks him and fucks him, like he can crawl into Arthur if only he tries hard enough, and he makes a wounded, shattered noise when he comes, pushing deep, the room shimmering with colours that should not be there.

He falls on top of Arthur for a moment, the magic still thick around them, before blinking like from a deep sleep, whispering, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ horrified by what he just did, shifting around and wrapping a helpful hand around Arthur’s prick, and Arthur tries to grab onto the bed for purchase when his whole body arches with the painpleasure of it just as Merlin says, ‘Sorry,’ for a third time.

His shout seems to catch in the cloud of power around them, echoed loudly back at him for a moment before being absorbed, lovingly, possessively, and even as Merlin himself stares in shock, he can feel the magic rush through his chest one last time, filling empty spaces Arthur didn’t know needed filling with warmth, not quite tender, not quite peaceful, but somehow soothing, and leaving its mark.

Merlin looks lost when he pulls out, too fast, his hands shaking when they reach for Arthur, as though he might be afraid of rejection. Arthur is too blissed out to move, so he lets Merlin come to him, slowly. When he realises Arthur isn’t angry, he whispers a spell that cleans up the evidence of what just happened, to Arthur’s slight regret, and cuddling closer, tries to regain some sense of normalcy.

This is what they usually do, after: Merlin stroking Arthur’s skin, soothing, and holding him close. Merlin will kiss him, then, when Arthur’s gone pliant and dazed, like he doesn’t think Arthur would let him at any other time, even though it’s a bit shameful just how much Arthur loves kissing, and how much he looks forward to that part, lately.

Now Merlin’s mouth trembles against his, careful, going through the motions, before becoming more possessive and greedy, and pulling back, and Merlin apologises before doing it all over again, like he just can’t stop himself. Merlin looks quite as stunned as Arthur feels, eyes wide and still dark, and hair askew, and Arthur makes an effort to move his lips against Merlin’s, meaning to reassure, but Merlin abruptly groans and shoves his tongue deep, then withdraws, flushed and biting his lip, looking like he can’t tell up from down anymore.

He starts kissing Arthur’s face instead, wraps him arms around him and strokes his back, calming himself more than Arthur, who has never felt this serene in his life.

Eventually, Merlin’s heart slows against Arthur’s chest, and his kisses turn languid when he presses them against Arthur’s mouth.

‘All right?’ Arthur asks, after a while, even though that’s Merlin’s line. He seems to come out of a trance and says, ‘Yes, of course I’m fine, but Arthur, you – ?’

‘I’m fine,’ he says, and Merlin’s face looks exhausted again in the flickering light of a torch, so he adds, ‘Go to sleep.’

Merlin’s eyebrows lift, because it’s nowhere near the time they both usually retire yet, but his eyes look heavy and he doesn’t say anything; pulls Arthur close with a loose hand on his neck, so Arthur can easily leave, if he so wishes, and shuts his eyes, instead, the torch flickering out. Arthur tries not to feel guilty when he can feel Merlin’s breathing even out in under a minute.

Arthur’s heart beats steadily in his chest, and he already knows he will feel good tomorrow, tension dissipated and energy replenished. He feels good, now, too, with his head on Merlin’s thin chest, warm beneath his cheek.

He extracts the pendant from where it’s pressed between them, closes his hand around it, and thinks about his mother. About what his life would have been like if she’d never died, if his parents had been together and he’d seen her smile every day. If Uther hadn’t prosecuted magic users, and Dragonlords, and Balinor had never fled to Ealdor.

Magic takes one life to give another, but maybe it isn’t as simple as that. It takes the greatest price, but maybe – maybe it gives something back.

Arthur draws the covers over Merlin’s exposed shoulders, feeling sleepy magic seep from his body and into his own skin, and resolves: tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’s going to kiss Merlin’s stupid face once and for all, and make him see. He thinks about Merlin saying _Mine_ , Merlin who has seen Arthur at his worst and somehow still hasn’t walked away, and wraps the necklace around his fingers, before going to sleep.

*

(It doesn’t happen tomorrow, when a messenger tells them of too many ships landing on the coast, villages being ravaged, and Arthur promises his men a long, grim journey. The fight, when they join it, seems to last forever, men pouring out of the bowels of ships like an endless supply of sour ale.

But when Excalibur finally falls from his tired hands, and Arthur holds his head high in the face of death, Merlin, filthy, at least as exhausted and far too pale, is there to pick it up, to push it back into his grip, and to hold Arthur’s gaze and say, ‘Come on. Come on, sire.’ And after, Arthur marches his troops forward one last time, madly, desperately, and somehow, they live.

It’s Merlin who kisses Arthur, just briefly, five weeks later, back at the castle, after a feast where he has a little too much wine, colour high and bold on his cheeks, and Arthur grabs his collar and pushes him right back into a wall, and laughs into Merlin’s mouth, and says, ‘Yes,’ and ‘Yes,’ and ‘Yes’ and Merlin grins and doesn’t look tired at all.)


End file.
